Tea and Motorcycles
by PenNameSmith
Summary: . . . Well, to be fair I had a couple of gadgets which he probably didn't, like a teaspoon and a talking motorcycle."


Ultimately, it's all because of the squirrel.

If the squirrel hadn't run across the road at just that moment, she never would have even stopped in the first place, half-bowled over and screeching to an awkward, swerving halt or otherwise.

Now, normally, that's where it would have ended; she'd have gotten a few angry words about treating one's motorrad with proper respect, dusted herself off, shot an annoyed glance at the spot in the trees where the stupid rodent had run off to, and been on her way. What makes her hesitate is the same thing she never would have noticed before, with the wind roaring past her ears and the throttle all the way up.

Specifically, that there is music coming from the woods.

It is quiet, and scratchy, but most certainly music. A gentle, sweeping, rhythmic tune – a waltz – wafting over the air from just beyond the shadowy trees at the side of the road. She hesitates, and briefly considers ignoring the strange phenomenon, but the explorer in her knows she'll never stop thinking about what it could have been if she does that. Another moment of indecision, and then a knowing look towards her travelling companion. He complains, vociferously, but of course there's no arguing with her at this point. She makes a deliberate turn off of the road, wheeling him carefully into the underbrush. She needs both hands to do it, but she's fast enough, and the gun is close enough, if there's something hostile beyond the branches.

The woods are peaceful, however. Two dozen steps in, she is startled to find herself exiting the trees and stepping into a small, sunny clearing. About thirty yards all around, with a flat little pond at the edge. The music is clear as day, now, though still a little scratchy.

It's coming from a phonograph, an old, portable, wood-and-copper model, nestling comfortably on the ground amid the grass. There's an antique folding chair beside it, and, sitting in the chair, an awkward, skinny man in a pinstripe suit, sprawled back, sound asleep. Beside him, a long, brown coat hangs miserably off the back of the chair. She stares at it, and touches her own, unconsciously. Similar, but not quite the same. The sight baffles her, and she isn't entirely sure what to do. Wake the man up and find out what kind of traveler he is that he can just wander into the woods – _on foot_, at that – and expect to emerge unscathed? Or just turn back to her original course and leave him undisturbed?

The decision is made for her in that same moment of hesitation. Before she can make a move, the man's eyes flutter open, and he sits upright with an overanxious speed that startles her.

"Yes, hello?" He peers at her drearily for a moment, and then seems to grasp the situation. "Oh! Hello! Hello, hello, hello, hello!" He leaps to his feet, a hand outstretched in friendly, if manic, introduction. He only makes it a few wobbly steps, however, before he trips over himself and falls flat on his face. The grass makes a tired, quiet _whumpf_ as he lands, stretched out awkwardly. She steps back in surprise. If the man _is_ an enemy, he's the clumsiest, most incapable bandit she's ever met. And what sort of highway robber gets drunk while listening to classical music, anyway?

So, she lets her guard down and goes to help the strange man up, hauling him off the ground by his shoulders. He sits up, clumsily, and stares at her for a confused moment before recognition registers on his face. He offers his hand again, weakly.

". . . Hello?" he tries, again.

She smiles, lightly, despite herself, and shakes his hand warmly. "_Hello_."

He sputters to himself, and sits up straighter, explaining himself through squinty, confused eyes. "Sorry, I'm . . . I'm sorry, really. I've, I've just . . . there." He motions widely to a bottle sitting in the grass behind his chair. It's completely empty, and seems to be very, very old. "Not something I _normally_ do, you know," he says, looking at in disapproval. "Ever, really. But I . . . I had . . . you know. A thing."

"A what?"

"A _thing_. A what-do-you-call-it. A . . . An excuse. Yes, that's it! I had a _really_ good excuse this time. A lot . . . a lot of sorrows to drown." He reflects on that for a moment. "Heh. Drown. You see? I can't stop the killing no matter what I do. He was right, really, it's all my fault . . . I'm so, _so_ sorry. . ."

He peters off and sobs to himself for a moment, in a surprisingly dignified and reserved fashion. She isn't entirely sure what to do – she feels, rather uncomfortably, that she's intruding in something she shouldn't be, but she's still holding on to his shoulders and she's afraid he'll fall over if she lets go. Once again, though, he winds up solving the dilemma for her. He bursts away from her and stumbles to his feet, shakily.

"But that's no way to go on when I've got company, is it? _Terribly _rude of me. Give us just a tic, here." He reaches into his suit jacket and fishes around in what seems to be an impossibly deep pocket, emerging after a moment with a tiny vial filled with an unsettlingly luminescent fluid. He pops off the cork and downs it in one.

Her companion speaks up. "Shouldn't we be going sometime around now?"

She tries to hush him, but gets distracted when she notices that that the man has hunched over and scrunched his face up in what appears to be an unusually painful expression. He shudders, retches, coughs, and then, after a moment, stands up straight. He adjusts his tie, dusts himself off, and turns back to her.

. . . Completely sober.

"_Much_ better," he says, with a little breath of relief. "I picked that up on Panacea. There was a little shop, you know? I like shops. I wasn't going to buy it, funny actually, but I could tell they weren't having any good business and I just felt bad for them and even though I thought I'd never have to use it I – "

He halts himself, mid-sentence, noticing her quietly stunned reaction to all of this. He runs a hand sheepishly through his messy hair. "Sorry, what was your name again?"

She tells him. He muses over it for a minute, repeating it a few times, rolling it around in his mouth. "Funny sort of name," he says, eventually. "I like it. Good name. Traveler's name."

"I wasn't born with it," she says, suddenly, surprised at herself for so readily admitting the fact to a complete stranger. She isn't quite sure why she's done it, but then all of a sudden the man's face cracks into a massive, friendly grin, and he laughs uproariously.

"What a brilliant coincidence," he says. In explanation, he tells her his name, and says that he wasn't born with it either. For him, it's a bit more obvious, but she appreciates the gesture all the same. Her companion coughs, politely, and she introduces him as well. He chimes in with a friendly enough greeting.

The man freezes in surprise, and stares, speechless for a moment, and suddenly bewildered. She isn't entirely sure what to say – nobody's ever quite reacted like that before. He hesitates, then takes a halting step forward, and leans over at her companion, peering at him curiously. He tilts an eyebrow.

"It _talks_?"

She isn't entirely sure why a grown man should be so surprised at this. "Well . . . yes?"

He stands back up. "Well, it's just, that's sort of brilliant is all, isn't it? A talking motorcycle?"

"Motor_rad_," her companion corrects, curtly, annoyed at the sudden attention. The man starts, and then seems to remember himself, bowing deeply and doffing an imaginary hat.

"I _do _beg your pardon." He takes a polite step backwards, and then paces a circle around her companion, observing him with great big purposeful strides. "This really is _brilliant_, though, I have to say. Where exactly are you going, then?"

She stops, and the clearing goes quiet for a moment. There it is, she thinks, the inevitable question. The one she always hates to answer, because there simply _isn't_ an answer. Not one that anybody else would understand, anyway. But for some reason, she feels as though this time she at least has to say _something_, though she isn't entirely sure what. She looks over at him, standing there all gangly and innocent. He looks simply interested, though in a very _alien_ sort of way, but somehow very familiar at the same time – after a moment she has to glance away; looking at him is like staring at a paradox.

"I'm not really going anywhere," she says, after a long time. "I'm just a traveler." It's the most honest answer she can give, and not one she gives up often. But while she's busy wondering whether or not she's made the right decision in trusting him, he straightens up and cracks the biggest and most astonished idiot grin she's ever seen a person make. Hell, this even tops his own smile of just a few minutes ago.

"Well now," he says, through quite a lot of teeth. "Today is just _full _of coincidences, isn't it?"

"I . . . what do you mean, exactly?"

"_Well_." He thumbs his lapels modestly and looks down in an almost sheepish sort of way. "It's just that _nowhere_ is where I've been going for quite a while myself. In a perfectly good and rational sort of way, you understand," he adds, quickly. He scratches his head, distractedly, and then glances off obliquely into the woods. She tries to follow his gaze, but all she can see is what looks like a sliver of blue nestled in between the trees on the far side of the lake.

"_I'm _being awfully rude, though, aren't I?" He says, suddenly. She's only a little startled at the sudden outburst; by this point she's beginning to get used to his odd timing when it comes to conversations. "I mean, you are my guest, aren't you?" he continues, when she gives him a questioning look. "Well, more acquaintance really, seeing as I don't actually live out here. Well, more . . . no, no, never mind. Point is, I should be offering you tea. Yes. Tea. _That's_ the proper thing to be doing in this situation, you can bet."

He marches off towards the woods before she can object. She hesitates, then glances at her companion, shrugs, and takes off after the man, more out of curiosity than anything else. He moves with bouncy, energetic steps, and she finds herself having to jog to keep up with him.

"Can I ask you a question?" she calls out, as he bounces off into the woods. She can see him moving towards the bit of blue she noticed in between the trees earlier.

A soft noise, like worn door hinges, floats out of the trees. "Yep, sure, anything," he answers – and his voice unusually distant all of a sudden.

"How do you travel? I mean, you can't possibly be out here on foot, nobody's that crazy."

No answer.

She asks again, and when she still gets no response, she ventures hesitantly towards the spot where she saw him vanish into the trees. Unconsciously, her hand drifts towards the gun on her belt; she still doesn't want to take any chances while she's off the road. But the clearing stays quiet, and when she reaches the edge of the trees, there is still no sign of him.

Instead, all she can see is what looks like an enormous, blue cabinet, with opaque windows on every side and a dusty light on the roof, resting quietly beneath the canopy. One of the doors is ajar, but not far enough to see inside. Cautious and confused, she takes another step, drawing closer. There is writing, on the doors and above them, but none of it seems to make any sense. There is something indescribably powerful about the cabinet; it seems spectacular, and wrong . . . and, somehow, there is something about it that feels so very, very _old_.

She puts out a hand, slowly, and feels the side. It's warm.

Then, without warning, there's a loud clattering sound from inside, the doors swing open, and there he is again, cheerily manic as ever and pushing a fully-loaded tea trolley in front of him. She jumps in surprise, and shoots a suspicious look at the cabinet – she's _positive_ that trolley never would have been able to fit inside.

He wheels past her, oblivious to her surprise, blithely strolling back in the direction of his abandoned folding chair. He's got a second one under his arm, now.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you back there. What was is that you wanted to ask me?"

She hesitates, not entirely sure which questions she should be asking now. After a moment, she shakes her head, says that is was nothing, and follows him back. Right now, she thinks, a nice, quiet cup of tea really is the best option. She watches him set the second folding chair down, and she sits, while he tinkers with an electric kettle and wanders off to the lake for some water.

A rather unusual quarter of an hour later (she doesn't think she's _ever_ seen an electric kettle break down quite so often, nor is she entirely sure why a buzzing, blue flashlight is supposed to be able to fix it) they sit together, sipping idly from the best and strangest tea she's ever tasted. She couldn't place the flavor to save her life, but it's good, whatever it is, and she drinks it happily.

. . . And she _talks_, more to her surprise than she would ever have suspected. She isn't usually this much of a conversationalist, and normally that isn't a fact that ever occurs to her. She's just used to being quiet and reserved whenever she speaks to people; after all, normally she's the only traveler in the room. Normally she's the one asking questions. And even when she isn't, normally she doesn't like to tell stories about where she's been and what she's done along her travels. But now, for some reason, she tells her stories for longer than she ever has before. She talks about the city where she came from, and the city under the volcano, and the arena. She explains her three-day-rule, and how she hopes to see the whole world someday. She talks for so long that sun has set and the sky is beginning to grow dark before she realizes that he hasn't said a single word – he's just sitting there, silently, watching her speak with an expression of the most sincere interest in what she has to say.

"I'm sorry," she says, finally, when her story is over. "I shouldn't have talked for that long without giving you a chance to. Where have you been on your travels?"

He seems to hesitate. Finally, with an expression of absolute seriousness, he says:

"Farther away than you could ever possibly imagine."

She raises an eyebrow. "And where exactly is that?"

"Well," he says, very slowly, as though he's choosing his words with the utmost care. "If you like, I could show you."

She laughs, politely. "I'm sorry, but I prefer to travel alone." She watches him carefully, as his face grows into a look of painfully earnest disappointment.

"Oh, but it wouldn't be travelling – not _really_, more a sort of _visit_ actually – "

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be impolite, but I just make it a policy to travel alone."

"I can take you places you'd never be able to go. Never in all your life."

"I'm sure," she says, politely, "that I'd find my way there sooner or later."

He hesitates. She can tell from his eyes, though, that he's been challenged and he isn't about to back down. He leans back, and points a finger up, at the sky. By now, the light has long gone, and the stars are out in full. He is pointing at the stars.

"I can take you _there_," he says, with conviction.

"You're joking."

"I'm not," he says, leaping to his feet. "Honest I'm not. And I tell you what, we'll even do it by your rules. One trip – three days. And when it's over, I'll bring you right back here and you can go on your way as though nothing ever happened. _Except_! Except something _will_ have happened. You'll have _been_ somewhere, stood in the streets of a city, or the shadow of a forest, or below the sky of a place nobody on this world has ever gone to, or ever will go to, or will ever even _dream_ of." He looks her straight in the eyes. "You look at me, and tell me, as a traveler, that you would willingly pass up a chance like that."

The clearing is quiet.

"Well," she says, after a long pause. "When you put it like that."

* * *

"I can't believe you agreed to this."

"Oh, hush." She leans her companion against the wall, carefully. "You're just angry because we had a hard time getting you through the doors. You've got plenty of space, now."

"But it feels _weird_."

"Yes," she admits, gazing around at the soft orange glow of their surroundings. "Yes, it does." She looks over to the great column in the center of the room – he's there, bouncing around it excitedly, flipping switches and pressing buttons. He sees her looking at him, and flashes another extraordinarily toothy smile.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, aren't you going to say something? Something like, I dunno, 'oh my goodness, it's _bigger on the inside'_?"

She looks confused. "I don't really understand why I have to tell _you_ that."

At this, his face goes blank, for the longest moment. And then, unexpectedly, he bursts out laughing, wearing yet another massive grin.

"You," he says, "are something else." He punches another button and gives her a challenging look. "Now then. Where to?"

"Wherever we wind up."

He laughs, again. "Now _that_ I like the sound of."

He flicks another switch, and a low, descending note fills the room. Then the floor shakes, and the walls tremble, and then there's a long, grinding sound, followed at last by a soft, ethereal whistle.

And then they're gone.


End file.
